


a thousand suns

by WonderAss



Series: golden spun, sunk so deep and we're undone [3]
Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Study, Child Death, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Drama, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Jaggie - Freeform, Mental Health Issues, One Shot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Canon, Slice of Life, Whump, anger issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 20:21:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21463996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderAss/pseuds/WonderAss
Summary: Jackson only knew his son for a few minutes.
Relationships: Jackson Avery/Margaret "Maggie" Pierce
Series: golden spun, sunk so deep and we're undone [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1547635
Comments: 9
Kudos: 26





	a thousand suns

**Song Inspirations:** "It Really Happened" by Paris Jones + "My Soul I" by Anne Leone

*

_we invited everybody_

_all these baby clothes_

_all these baby gifts_

_from the parties_

_tryin' to figure out how to raise a man_

_and I ain't even gonna be raisin' him_

  
*

"In the mood for anything?"

"A hot, crispy five hundred feet away from here. Contemporary R&B is fine, too."

If she laughs, she'll validate the joke. Maggie scrunches her lips together and tries to look focused on setting the drive into reverse.

Jackson saves her the trouble of choosing the song, at least. He flicks back his hood, then shuffles through her iPod, eventually landing on a single as somber as the weather. Maggie pulls out of the clinic parking lot without another word, only stealing a glance at his face once she's out. His expression is a wall painting she's studied more times than she can count. Vacant stare, twist to his jaw, restless hand on his knee, in that order. Hell, she could probably recreate it (if she could draw more than stick figures).

Therapy isn't as easy as sitting down and letting it all spill. If that were the case, well. Therapists would be able to take a _lot_ more paid leave.

"...So." She says, after a few lane changes and a silence that manages to squeeze through the song transitions. "How'd it go?"

The leather seat creaks, somehow the loudest part of the drive.

"It went."

Maggie scrunches her lips again, this time to stifle a hardboiled sigh. Starting conversations after said therapy sessions isn't something _she_ does easily, either, but he's trying. So will she.

"You know..." She reaches out a hand and waves across a pedestrian at the crosswalk. "I'm kind of craving some Italian. How about we make something at home instead of eating out?"

Jackson shifts again. Doesn't speak, instead pulling out his phone and tapping something in. Maggie puts on a smile she's not sure he's looking at.

"Pros and cons. It'll give us something to do and we can avoid making small talk in public, _but_-" She holds up a finger. "...we'll have to brave the Friday night grocery store line."

She just catches his huff, just before the song switches again.

"I'd like that."

Okay. That's a small victory. Maggie flips on her turn signal and glides into the parking lot of the nearby grocery store. A lot of therapy is...waiting. Both in _and_ out of the office. The thought cycles through her head as they stroll through the hustle and bustle of families trying to wrap up their shopping lists.

Asking questions. Waiting. Backtracking. Waiting. Talking. Waiting. It's to the point all those gaps _have_ to be part of the program (even though her logical mind says it's just the reality of old habits dying slow deaths). Jackson's filled her in on _those_ details, at least. She wouldn't know: she's never actually been to a therapy session before. Venting to her sisters works well enough, once she passed that hurdle from 'long-lost nuisance' to 'one of the pack'. Her mother was, well...someone she could _always_ talk to, even when the words were mangled.

The reminder that she can't sit down with her and have a manicure session over mundane woes anymore isn't _quite_ the white-hot burn it used to be, but the ache still crawls. Covers her skin in hoarse, haunting bumps that trickles to her very fingertips and turns her grip on the shopping cart weak. Maybe a little therapy might be good for her, too. It'd round out the rest of the gaps that family and friendship (honest-to-goodness _friendship_) still hasn't quite filled. Maggie takes her time choosing a clove of garlic. For once...she's glad Jackson is lost in his head. She was never very good at keeping her thoughts off her face.

When she met him outside the clinic for the first time -- on his first trip to therapy in his _life_ \-- his eyes didn't shine like they used to. His cheeks had been flushed, but not from the chill, and a muscle in his jaw wouldn't stop twitching. He hadn't been clawing at his face, no, but that victory had felt strangely shrunk nonetheless. Five sessions in and he only relaxes once they've put a few miles in-between, as if the building disappearing from view is exactly what he needs to breathe. It's kind of nice she's his metaphorical fresh air...but he never shares any of it with her. Hell, she still barely knows what he went through during his commitment at the ward. Maybe he's exhausted from letting it all spill, and looking too deeply into that was going against the point of a psychologist's job.

Still. She should be involved in _some_ of it...right?

"You okay?" Maggie asks, before she can stop herself, and Jackson looks at her like she's speaking a foreign language backwards. For a cold second she's afraid he's dissociating again, that she's going to hear the names of his dead friends or a surreal grammar, but...no. He's talking, and the words make sense.

"I'm...fine?" He intones, squinting and tilting his head. She tries valiantly to twitch her mouth into the right smile, that '_I'm here for you and know something's wrong but I don't want to push you into a corner_'-type. "What are you referring to?"

There it is. The willful obtuseness. Maggie shrugs.

"Nothing...super particular. Just in general."

Jackson's eyes always looked like the sea. That description doesn't go anywhere, not when there's a tension boiling beneath his calm gaze. Stormy and vague and far too tense for the fluorescent lights of the grocery store.

"I hear that question enough in there." He nudges her shoulder, smile a sodden, grey little thing. "Let's get some vegetables."

Maggie's smile finally settles into place, but it hurts.

"Right."

Maybe it's not her job, but she's a part of his life. That _has_ to count for something.

They have to sidestep no less than _three_ families on their way to get diced tomatoes and dehydrated milk, busy as a Friday evening only can be. It's funny how odd the traditional nine-to-five feels, despite the fact she's been neck-deep in her field for _years_. It's sort of like missing a step up a flight of stairs, if she didn't have to worry about twisted ankles. The entire aisle is hustling and bustling, everyone glued to their phones for a recipe or a discount, and she feels that same missed step grabbing a few packs of Lunchables for the kids.

She says as much to him (drifting beside her like a plastic bag), and doesn't get so much as a grunt in return.

"Jackson?"

He's staring at a box of ravioli.

"_Jackson_."

"...Hm?"

Maggie reaches around him for another can. He shifts out of the way a second too late. Aaand there's another clue for the (increasingly thick) personal evidence book. Shopping for pasta ingredients isn't all _that_ involving. They've only been here for a half hour or so, but his distracted behavior is to the point she might as well bring up dancing unicorns or a naked man across the street. _Just_ to see if he'll react. She takes a flour bag, too, and sets it in the cart.

"We're gonna need some cheese next." She cocks an eyebrow at his pasta box. "Unless you wanted to skip that step and just head on ba-"

"No, no. I'm...no." He puts it back, swiftly enough, and blinks a smile onto his face like it's always been there. "So we're going _full_ vegetarian, then?"

"Well, yeah. Just in case any vegetarians I know like it. Never hurts to try something different." Phew, these switches of his are unsettling. "Let's _geeet_...the squash. The squash _you're_ cooking, because I always turn it into mush for some reason."

"It's because you boil it." He brushes a hand over her hip, hardly more than a whiff that has her skin scrunching into eager knots. "Steaming vegetables keeps the texture _and_ is less work."

Oh, she wants him to keep doing that so badly. Smiling, touching her, looking her in the _eye_, but the possibility he could clam up again is still in triple digits. She agrees with his sentiment, picking up the biggest squash she can find and shuffling through as many small talk topics as possible.

"Did you know wheat pasta is healthier than bleached pasta?"

"I'm aware."

"But bleached pasta is still _wheat_."

Jackson chuckles softly, shuffling through the crimini mushrooms and holding them up in turn. He stops only to punch something into his phone. It takes all her mental willpower not to _flip_ the entire vegetable aisle.

"You know, I read a _really_ neat article on robotic limb development."

"Mm?"

"Yeah, it was...really trippy. They honestly think we'll make a breakthrough in the next few decades. I can't even imagine it. We can't even get our potholes patched up. How the hell are we going to make robot arms and feet? Maybe my rechargeable hearts can find a space in there. I mean, my patient keeps saying she's a cyborg, anyway."

Jackson bobs his head vaguely, reaching over to grab a bag and fill it with green onions. Maggie's heart sinks. It's kind of greedy of her, to expect him to always be 'on'. She knows that. She just misses what they had, and how easy it was.

For an awful second she hates the very _idea_ of therapy, and has to do a recount of the shopping cart to get her mind on something else. Maggie takes one last glance at her shopping list. Was that it? Was she just overthinking a basic thing? A licensed psychologist was where _aaall_ the technical terms were laid out and dissected. Work was where all the loose energy could be diverted somewhere important, stitching those pieces into a winning result that made it all worth it.

Family...family was there to help with the swelling. The _healing_. It should be the easiest thing in the world.

"So." She leans into his line of sight. "How are you getting along with your new therapist?"

Jackson slowly straightens up and rolls a slow, terse gaze her way. Maggie mentally slaps herself. Oh, _dammit_. That was too blunt. That was way, _way_ too blunt.

"Sorry, I'm...not trying to put you on the spot. It's just your fifth session and you haven't really...talked about it."

"That's because I didn't want to talk about it." He drawls, plucking a zucchini off the shelf. His brittle smile doesn't reach his eyes. About as diametric as the sky and the sea. "Come on. Let's get this stuff home and start cooking."

***

She really wishes she were as patient as Meredith sometimes. As far as her brain was concerned, waiting was just a sign she wasn't working efficiently enough.

On a technical level she did everything right. She reached out. She offered an alternative to their usual 'dine and relax' thing after sessions. She...did her best, but it doesn't seem to have helped at all. The lines between uselessness and selfishness and helpless _love_ for this man grow blurry as they prep the kitchen counter. Managing mental health, when it comes down to it, was really just managing a bunch of parlor tricks. Maybe she hasn't attended therapy sessions herself, but she saw enough at the ward to reach this conclusion. _More_ than enough.

Distractions were the easiest trick, though not always the most healthy. Walks in the park and coffee over textbooks worked most of the time, but were sometimes hard to squeeze in with their shifts. A lot harder were the conversations, which Jackson would predictably swing away from anything remotely introspective. She's even tried shaking up _sex_: a thing she normally did for fun and was now a form of medication meted out in careful doses. Maybe she should go back to journaling. It'd been helpful during that separation period of theirs, it really had, but she just hasn't had time to do it. Oh. They could talk about _that_.

"Jackson-" She starts. Jackson sucks in a sharp breath through his nose and drops his head back.

"_What?_"

Maggie flinches at the exasperation in his tone. She swallows and looks to the side, the burn of humiliating efforts threatening to overtake the peace of the evening.

"...Um. I just wanted to say we can always do this another night, if you want." She rubs off a bit of mushroom from her hands. "I can just...order pizza."

For a few cold seconds Jackson just keeps chopping, a terse, jerky _rap-rap-rap_ that makes her armhair stand on end. He stops only to lean over the sink and rub excess off his hands. Then he slows, shoulders slackening as her response sinks in.

"Wait...what? No, no, let's do this. I want to do this." He turns and puts two damp hands on her shoulders. "It'll get my mind off...everything." Jackson raises his brows. "Also, pizza is for period days. We _discussed_ this."

Maggie, in spite of herself, snickers.

"Yes, that we did." Her smile fades a little. "I just wanted to make sure-"

"It's nothing." He squeezes her shoulder. "I'm fine. Or fine enough to make some handmade ravioli and watch Netflix."

Then Jackson's smile goes crooked, sinking into a lazy slope that makes her heart flutter. He slides a hand up her hip, trickling fingers _just_ where her skin peeks from beneath the blouse. _Finally._ Maggie closes her eyes and leans up...then blinks when Jackson holds her firmly where she is, instead gliding around her to take his place right back at the cutting board.

"Going to keep you away from the vegetables, though." He smiles to himself and promptly goes back to chopping. "Just in case."

Smooth bastard.

"Yeah, that's wise."

Maggie calls out a song before he can (radio hog that he is), one from her 'Sweet Vibes' playlist and something she listens to when she needs help getting the tears out. It's not _depressing_, but a sweet, sincere little number that knows just where to hit her. Psychology and music is a particular thing she's..._kind_ of picked up, these past few months. Jackson picks up the cutting board and sweeps the chopped vegetables into the bowl with the ease of a professional.

"This is catchy." He murmurs. Maggie perks up.

"You like it?"

"Yeah." He taps a stray vegetable off the knife. "Nice melody."

It doesn't last.

Jackson goes back to that place while they're kneading the dough side-by-side. Staring through his hands with an unfocused gaze that drifts and flickers, fingers as deft and clever as they ever are. Maggie kisses his shoulder in-between repowdering her hands. She gets a fond hip nudge in return, a flicker of warmth on his face...and, before she can stop it, that same quiet boomerangs right back. Like he's being sucked back into a gravitational pull. She tries to keep her throat from closing up as she grates the cheese. The counter is strewn with yellow and green and orange, a spread of fresh vegetables and as-of-yet unopened ingredient straight out of one of Mer's favorite cooking magazines. It's beautiful.

She wishes he was here to appreciate it, too. Maggie sneaks a slice of mushroom before picking up one of the dough knives, the weight of a time limit growing heavier and heavier. Would something a little more lively get him to relax? It's not..._too_ weird, using mood music outside of the bedroom. He probably does it, too. Alexa's playing a soothing acoustic-R&B piece that keeps the mood from getting _too_ shaky, but it's only three minutes long, and she's far more focused on thinking of another song than-

"_Ow!_"

Maggie grips her hand and hisses as red dots the counter. Jackson jerks to attention.

"Woah, woah, watch out. Here." He hip bumps her again, this time to nudge her toward the sink. He turns on the water and twists it to cold. "You okay?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine. Just not paying attention." She pinches her finger to slow the bleeding, cursing her damn Newton's Law pattern of thoughts. "Agh, god. I don't know how Italian bistros _do_ it."

Jackson hums agreement in the back of his throat, eyes firmly on her hand as he rinses off the worst of it. It's not too deep. Nothing a little hydrogen peroxide can't fix. Before she can so much as _breathe_ in the direction of the bathroom, though, he tells her to stay put, jogging off past the foyer and disappearing. Maggie sighs, slumps her elbows on the sink edge and stares at the pink water swirling down the drain. Tack another record onto her evidence list of tiny failures...this time making a mess of a homemade Italian therapy supplement.

Alexa switches to Sheryl Crow, then: 'The First Cut Hurts The Deepest', a song she couldn't have conjured up in her most _ridiculous_ daydreams.

"Why do we leave that thing on?" Maggie mutters. Artificial limbs may be on the horizon, but artificial intelligence _can't_ be advanced enough to have a sense of humor.

"That _thing_ is responsible for ninety percent of our dance sessions." Jackson says when he strolls back in, first aid kit in hand. "Alexa, second playlist, please. And I'm sorry about what she said, she doesn't mean it." He lifts up her hand, then shoots her a sly look over her knuckles. "I'm not entirely convinced she's not alive."

"I'm _definitely_ not." Maggie watches him dress the wound with his usual laser precision. Even a basic bandage is applied with focused delicacy. "You listen to Sheryl Crow?"

"Sometimes, I guess. That's an old playlist, I've had it for..." He trails off, thumbing off a stray spot of antiseptic. "...a while."

Maggie casts a forlorn eye over the proceedings. It was going so _well_, too.

"I really hope I didn't get any in the dough." She mutters. "Everyone likes ravioli, but I don't think anyone wants it to taste like iron."

Jackson doesn't respond. He may have got a knack for bottling things up, but she has just earned the title of 'Queen Of The Worst Segues'. Thankfully, she missed the dough. Now she just needs to figure out how to make cute ravioli with one of her hands compromised. Maggie gives her finger a test wiggle, then rinses off her hands and settles back into place. Alexa seems to take pity on her, switching to a downtempo piece that fills the air with a softness so thick she could almost bite it. He's gone quiet again, and this time, she surrenders. It's a victory, really. All of it.

Just...a small one, when she wishes she could make it so much bigger.

"You gotta teach me how you..._crimp_ it up like that." Maggie says once she wraps up her portion, holding up one of the raviolis and squinting a critical eye. It only _sort_ of looks like one of Zola's art school projects. "Put those plastics skills to domestic use."

Nothing. Well. It's not the best joke she's ever told (that would go to her horse pun at Amelia's welcome home party), but it deserves at least a response. Maggie looks up...

...and Jackson is leaning over the sink. Low and hunched, like he's staring at something really closely. A pall slowly settles over her skin. The same kind she gets when new patients are flooding into the ER with no visible end in sight, tense and battle-ready.

"...Jackson?" She doesn't want to ask it, not when she's _been_ asking it a hundred times to the same monosyllables...but she has to. "You...okay?"

"Um." He sucks in a sharp breath, like he hasn't breathed in days. "...Yeah? I need...to sit down."

Her chest goes cold. Did he always look this dizzy? Has something else been bothering him this whole time? Exhaustion, nausea, migraine? Her doctor's mind is cranking into overdrive, flipping page after page after page. Maggie reaches out a tentative hand for his shoulder.

"Jackson...go sit. I got it."

"It's...it's fine." It still sounds like a question, a betraying uptick to his voice. He pulls out his phone (for _some_ reason) then stuffs it away and reaches for the strainer. "I'm-"

Uh-uh. No. Maggie swiftly plucks the strainer and sets it _just_ out of reach. She then stands in his line of sight, crossing her arms, puffing out her chest and attempting her best barrier. If Bailey can command a room at five-foot nothing, she can _definitely_ do this.

"What is it?" She asks, mentally channeling the strainer to squeeze out the hurt and confusion as much as possible. "You've been like this _all_ day."

Jackson's brow furrows. He doesn't..._exactly_ look angry, but he keeps twisting his mouth, grinding down the words he should be spitting out instead. He's breathing shallowly through his nose, too, like he's on the verge of..._something_. She usually thinks it's a good thing they fight so rarely, but now it's left her in the position of being completely behind on his tics. God, it's all so hard to pin down. All of it a mess she's not sure how to dig her fingers in and start detangling.

"No, Maggie, this...this isn't _your_ problem, it's mine." He tries to move around her, then snorts frustration when she steps in the way again. "I can save it for the next session. Can you _please_ move?"

"But what is _it_, Jackson?" Maggie tries, leaning instinctively when his eyes flick away from her.

"Oh, come on. You know what I mean. " He waves a frustrated hand in the air. "_It_. Problems. Issues."

"Can you, though? _Can_ you save it for the next session? You've been..._off_, all day. All month, since you started? I'm honestly starting to lose track. We're a family, Jackson. I'm not your therapist, no, but I'm your girlfriend." Her stomach flutters with the weight of her next words. "Your person. Right?"

"Maggie-"

"_Right?_"

"Yes, okay. You are." He spreads his arms exasperatedly, then drops them. "You are."

"Okay. So say what you need to say now, before it gets tossed onto the pile with all the rest and drowns you and I can't...dig you back out."

For a few minutes he doesn't speak. They're the longest minutes of her life. The pot of water bubbles happily on the stovetop, the foam from the salt and seasonings starting to trickle over the edge. A few stray drops hit the boiler, hissing and spitting. Jackson doesn't so much as flinch in its direction, gazing off into the middle distance she's started to dread nearly as much as his visits to the clinic. Then he looks directly at her, the first he's really done it all day, and staring into his eyes is like staring into the sun.

"...Okay. You want to hear about my bullshit?"

He holds up a shaking hand, a movement her eyes trail with apprehension, and hisses:

"_I only knew Samuel for a few minutes_."

Oh. _Oh_. Her mind slips with a sand-like tenacity, clawing for purchase as she sinks into the moment. It's hard not to pummel herself for not coming to this conclusion, even as logic tells her there's no way she could've made this connection. Not with his history. Not with his _problems_. Maggie's throat clenches when Jackson holds out both his hands. Hovers them for a moment, then...curves them inward. Curves them, as if cradling an invisible bowl.

"I practiced holding babies...every night. Every single night. Just...pillows. Towels. Practicing." He smiles, and it's anything but brittle now. "I've held kids before. But I was going to hold _him_. Finally hold him."

Maggie stares at the gesture, working through the disconnect of such an odd way to hold a child. That's right. Samuel had a birth defect that made him born small enough...to be held in two hands. Jackson, as if reading her mind, pulls his hands inward until his arms are crooked in a proper little basket. Crooked and careful and painfully, painfully perfect.

"Sometimes...it feels like I lost more than Samuel? Like I...lost a thousand sons because he never got a chance to _be_ someone. If he had grown up a little...got a few birthdays in..." Then the little basket is gone. Jackson covers his mouth with one hand, muffling his next words. "God. This is going to sound so fucked up."

"No, no, it's okay." She tries, as much as she can around the icy breath in her chest. "I-It's okay. I'm listening."

For a horrible second Jackson looks at her like he doesn't believe her. Then, before she can put a name to the horrible sensation peppering her chest, he continues.

"If...if he had grown up and...and liked Blue's Clues or...or orange juice over apple o-or..._football_ over _basketball_...he would've been someone and I would've lost a son." He raises both hands to grip his face, then his hair. "Instead I lost more, because he could've been so many people, and he became...none of them." He rubs at his hair fitfully. "I lost them _all_."

Maggie stares. Damn it. Maybe she should've listened to him. She doesn't know what to do with the man before her. Jackson keeps raking his hands over his head, over and over again like he's trying to pull _out_ of himself. It's different than that tic with his jaw, where he'd scratch and tug at his face like an ill-fitting shoe, and at least that one was a hell she knew. It's like his PTSD and depression and grief are a virus, mutating to a new form when a symptom is conquered. It's so much. So _much_. She's saved lives, and _lost_ lives, and right now she's never felt more inadequate.

"Phew, then he...then he squeezed her finger. I didn't even get to _feel_ that." He drags both hands back down to his face, breathes through his fingers and crushes his eyes shut. "She got to feel him kick, got to be with him all the time. It's like...no, it's...these thoughts are so stupid, but I even wished I could've carried him? I literally fucking can't, I'm not built for it, I don't even know why I think things like that, I...I'm not _mad_ at her, Maggie, I'm not, I'm _not_, I just wish...I just wish I could've...gotten to know him."

Somehow, amid the compounded regret and bitterness and stumbling anguish, it clicks and makes sense. A thousand sons. A thousand sunrises. Jackson only knew his son for a few minutes, and that lost potential has been a permanent sack over one shoulder for years.

"Maybe he would've hated being an Avery. Just like his dad." That confession hits like a slap, ringing through everything she's seen _and_ heard since she arrived at Grey-Sloan. "Or maybe he would've loved it. Maybe he would've been a general doctor or a bus driver or a singer. I'll never know. I'm just here, dwelling on what's done, and I can't stop. I don't bring it up in my sessions, I _haven't_ brought it up, but it's there!" He swings a hand around his head. "In my mind, pounding and pounding and _pounding_ and I can't _stop_."

It's a level of pain she can't quite wrap her brain around, just beyond her grasp like a cereal box on the top shelf. She's not sure if she wants to reach it. Not if it can whittle a capable and compassionate man down to brass tacks and spill him all over the floor like this. Her own empathy is working overtime, a hot crawl of pain on his behalf beating hot behind her eyes.

"Jackson..." She tries. He shakes his head. She's not sure what at.

"I can't...I can't stop." He claws at his hair again. It's not quite panic, the edge to his voice, but _this_...this she's familiar with. How grief can edge into hysteria. When the crawling agony of never again overwhelms and makes the world go white. "I can't, I can't-"

"I...I know." She reaches for him, but he steps just out of range, shaking his head over and over. "It's okay..."

"Then she _left_. She _left_ me."

Just like that, he's furious, and she has no idea what to do all over again.

"I waited for her and she _fucked off_." He balls his fists behind his neck, gritting his teeth and grimacing through the words. It makes sense, she realizes in a far-off, buzzing sort of way, for a man as meticulously wrapped up as Jackson Avery. "I needed her when the world fell to pieces and she fucked off to the military, to Jordan, then to Georgia if I hadn't stopped her. Would've gone to the goddamn _moon_ if she could! Told me I didn't feel _anything_ about what happened."

Jackson starts to pace. Maggie takes an unconscious step back, watching him venting out his nervous energy like she's sometimes watched patients in the waiting room, high on adrenaline and the terrible limbo of not enough answers.

"I had so many nightmares of waking up and finding she'd been blown up. Blown up like..._like_..."

Without warning Jackson grabs the empty measuring cup on the counter and _flings_ it into the sink. Maggie jumps. It doesn't shatter, but the sound rings in her ears, hollow and shocking.

"_Boom_. In a flash. Probably would tell me I feel nothing about _that_, too, beyond the grave."

He laughs, suddenly, and the sound cracks the air like a second cup.

"Like the hospital shooting, where all my colleagues got holes in their head. Like that, basically? Didn't feel anything about that, either! Didn't have screaming nightmares. Didn't throw up in the trash after lunch. _Twice_. Nothing." He laughs again, and shrugs. "Nope. Nothing!"

He holds her gaze, as if desperate to convince her. As if every single breath he's spilled hasn't been agonizingly honest.

"Maggie, I know I didn't give birth to him, but I..._I loved him_. I loved someone I didn't even know and now I'll never know him." With that, what seems like every last bit of his energy goes out in a puff of smoke. Jackson hangs his head and stands there, looking more exhausted than even an all-night shift. "...I should've moved on by now. I'm supposed to be stronger than this."

Maggie opens her mouth, then lets it hang there ridiculously, her brain stuttering in trying to gather up the perfect words in too little time. The facts scroll before her irregardless, blistering and true. He's not supposed to be strong all the time. It's perfectly reasonable to grieve a lost child, even one he barely knew, because of all the love and hard work that goes into expecting a family! That this is a lot, on top of a marriage that ended so badly-

"Because I _am_ strong, right." He rolls his teeth over his bottom lip, glance slanted to the floor bitterly and shaking his head in one long, continuous motion. "I can just handle anything life throws at me. I don't feel a fucking thing."

Jackson rubs his forehead, then irritably swipes at his eyes with the backs of his hands.

"People lose people they've known for years every day and find a way to manage." His best efforts don't do a thing. Tears stream down his face, anyway, spotting the floor in an unstoppable deluge. "I only knew him for a few minutes and I'm falling apart at the fucking seams." He sniffs, hard, then pinches the bridge of his nose. "Shit."

She's finally able to speak, though her words sound distant to her ears.

"You said it yourself...you're mourning everyone he could've been. Other people's pain doesn't cancel out your own, Jackson. You're a doctor." She smiles, the tiny motion making her face ache. "You know that."

"I don't. I don't know that. I don't know _anything_." He's not looking at her directly. Still trying to hide his tears, despite the fact they're more alone than they could ever be. "I'm such an idiot I went and had to believe in God, which means, by default, I have to believe there was a good fucking reason Samuel got pulled out of my ex-wife's stomach only to die." Jackson turns and leans on the counter, grinding his teeth around the mantra of panicked refusal. "Fuck that. Fuck that, fuck that, _fuck that_."

What little ground she'd gained is gone in a flash. All over again, she doesn't know what to say. She doesn't know what to _do_. This isn't anything she's been prepared for, not even after losing her mother. She's never had a kid, she's never even been _married_. They're suddenly from two different planets and even breathing the same air is filling her with grief, threatening to tug her down the well that's opened up beneath his feet. She doesn't want to get this wrong. She can't.

"Jackson? What...do you need?"

His throat clicks with a swallow. He turns on the water and splashes it onto his face, hasty like he's about to clock on, then scrubs it off with the nearby rag...which he then stares at with this horrible, _haunted_ look she can't connect to anything she knows about him. Maggie stands and waits through it, until she can't possibly wait any longer.

"I can...I can go. Give you a little space..."

It's the wrong thing to say. His hackles raise, a frustrated and _bitter_ air spiking between them.

"Fine. _Get out_." He flips a hand. "Fuck off to Cancun."

Maggie leans back, stung.

Jackson doesn't look at her. Just rubs at his mouth like he wants to tug it off, glaring at something only he can see. ...That's that, then. Maggie slowly turns and looks for her jacket, the hurt mutating into an awful burning-numbness that makes her hands shake. She buttons herself up, then reaches down for her boots. Then Jackson looks over at her in the corner of her eye, like seeing her for the first time.

"...Oh." He breathes, straightening up a little. "Shit."

It hurts. She won't pretend it doesn't. But that's the thing about hurts. They tend to spread, even when they're invisible. She saw a lot of this before he got discharged from the ward. Behavior that didn't really...make all that much sense, because whatever got kicked out of order in his mind hadn't (hasn't) been put back into place yet. Amelia told her brains are funny like that. That it's not _quite_ fair to judge a person acting through a sick mind any more than a sick heart or sick stomach.

"_Brains are crazy complicated. It's amazing we don't fuck things up more often. I mean, I had a brain tumor for years and had no idea. Affected more than I'd like to admit._"

She'd said this to her, during one of their late talks a day after Jackson had a panic attack in Bailey's hyperbaric chamber. If she closed her eyes right now she could smell the mugs of hot chocolate and feel the endless tissue bundles littering the couch.

"_Mental illness isn't quite like a tumor, of course, but something in there is all...jangled up. You know how you'd, like, struggle to get up a flight of stairs with high blood pressure? Well, depression or PTSD can make you struggle to...feel certain things. Feel them at the right time, feel them for the right person, feel at all. And you can't see it. Even though you're a doctor and you know it's there, under the surface and affecting everything, you can't see it unless you go grab a CAT scan. So you find something you **can** see and blame yourself._"

It was a reason. It wasn't an excuse. Owen hadn't been good for her, hadn't _wanted_ the help he so sorely needed, and Amelia had no choice but to leave him to be sick _and_ alone. Jackson isn't like Owen. Jackson has sought out help, even if the help had been kickstarted on a breakdown-then-forceful commitment. If anything, him leaving her for a rebound had hurt more than _any_ threat to her physical safety. A rebound...he only did because his body was on a fight-or-flight overdrive. She knows this, they've spent months laying down brick after brick to meet each other halfway, but...it still _hurts_.

"Maggie, I'm...I'm sorry, I didn't mean that." His eyes flick to her shoes, then to her face. "I should've...I'm _sorry._"

Jackson tries a shaky little smile, reaching for her. A smile that dims when Maggie steps away, holding her elbow tightly.

"Okay. Do you want me to go or not?"

"_No_." He gasps it out, a punch of air that makes her go cold, then hot all over. "Please, no. That's...no. I want you to stay."

She wants to leave. She really, really does, but...that's the old Maggie. She already did that before, back when he'd _finally_ tried wearing his heart on his sleeve, and it hadn't helped either of them. Maggie sways on her feet a little, rocking the instinct out of her bit-by-bit.

"Okay." She says, softly. "I'll stay."

She still wants to leave. Be hurt and frustrated and bury herself in research until the sting fades. Instead she shrugs back out of her coat and holds her arms out wide. He doesn't hesitate. Therapy's working for them both, in a way. She sees it in how Jackson grips her tight and huddles into her like she's shelter from a torrent, and how she buries her nose in his neck and breathes him in through the burn in her lungs.

For minutes they just...hold each other. Maggie looks over the curve of his neck out at the glitter of buildings outside. The morning and afternoon clouds have given up the facade for evening, it seems, because the world outside is a splash of orange. Everything looks a little different. His grief has spilled everywhere, down his face and now into her chest, and even the colors of the apartment seem...richer, somehow. The light dappling the floor warmer. More gold. It's the same feeling she got when her mother passed: a world touching a little harder, hitting a little firmer, and right now it's pressing in on her.

Jackson's lips meet the shell of her ear. Press to the cords of her neck, her cheek, right beneath her eye, the salt from his face sticking to her skin. His voice is more felt than heard.

"I shouldn't have said that to you." He whispers into her cheek, breath hot. Shaky. "I shouldn't have done any of this."

"No. This is good." She pets his head, keeping her chin hooked over one shoulder so he can't see her face buckling beneath the weight of it all. "I mean it."

"I'm supposed to do this _there-_" His voice crackles into her hair. He's completely ashamed. "In the god_damn_ office."

"Stop, stop, shh." She's channeling her mother, she can feel it, the words pulling out of her. "Shh. It's fine. Sometimes it just...spills out."

All he manages is a nod and a tight, reedy little _mm-hmm_ that kicks around what's left of her heart's pieces. Without thinking Maggie leans to the left, then the right. Left, then right. Rocking him. The tears don't slow down for minutes more, minutes that feel like hours, droning by to the beat of his hoarse breath and the comforting blare of evening traffic, all beneath the leftover tang of cilantro.

"You did get to know him, in a way. You imagined a life with him. You said it yourself, you...practiced holding him and everything." Maybe it's not the most eloquent, but it's honest. "I think...you _did_ know Samuel. Just for a little bit. He knew you, too."

The way he looks at her burns worse than anything she's ever felt. Jackson's eyes shine again, but this time with _astonishment_, like the thought truly hadn't occurred to him. It stuns her how much progress he's missed out on because he devours his pain whole. Gorges himself on it because there was nothing else to eat. Not his mother's sky high expectations, not his ex-wife's self-centered behavior. Certainly not the graves of those he looked up to and those he loved. She's suddenly overwhelmed with anger. A white-hot pop of fury aimed at the people who let him down, in minor or major ways, and left him to patch himself back up.

It scares her. The feeling pushes her out of her body into the vast realm of everything else, and with a little effort she tugs herself back into the moment. Maggie kisses his cheek, then his forehead, and savors the sweet pain of Jackson's nails digging into her back.

Then the evening dips into night, impossibly fast and impossibly slow. Jackson eventually untangles from her, scrubbing at his swollen eyes, her front soaked in tears and snot. He mumbles something incomprehensible, an apology, perhaps. She shushes him one more time before helping him to his feet. He moves like he's empty, not walking so much as drifting over to the kitchen to turn off the stove. She quietly thanks her foresight for wearing layers, tugging off her sweater and patting out her undershirt as he washes his face off in the sink.

"You can always talk to me." She says to his back. "Cry around me. I'll never judge you for it."

Jackson looks over his shoulder. It's hard to segue into her next point when everything feels wrapped up, but it has to be said.

"You _can't_, however..." He stands up straight at that. "...throw things when you're angry. Ever. I don't care if it's not at me. That's not the kind of place I want to live in." She lets out a tight, shaky breath. "I'm going to go sit outside for a bit...okay?"

He looks scared. Walks back over to take hold of her hands, like she'll vanish otherwise.

"I-I'm sorry. You're right, I shouldn't have done that. I'd _never_ hurt you..."

Not willingly, at least, and she already knows that. She wants to ask _why_ he goes from mature to insensate in a blink, but she knows it's just stupid, senseless PTSD, and she just...can't, right now. It had been a lot just to see him hold that shard of glass back at the hospital. It was _ridiculous _for her to think she could blunt force her way through this. Just like that, the day peaks past 'manageable' to 'too damn much'.

"I know you wouldn't." She looks just over his shoulder. "Please let go of me."

He does, swiftly, throat bobbing with the rest of his guilt. Without another word she walks past him and through the living room, shutting the porch door behind her and slumping down on one of the chairs.

She's never feared Jackson would hurt her. He was one of the most gentle people she's ever met, and a glass shard and plastic cup didn't change that. Still...it wasn't healthy. It was...a little scary, actually. Amelia talked to her about Owen's anger, too. How it could just erupt out of nowhere and paint everything that came before in a weird, off-color light. It's a tint that just didn't belong in a relationship labeled 'healthy' and 'stable'.

Maggie takes in a long, chilly breath and watches the leftover clouds shift above, the past few minutes (_hour, her phone reminds_) wash over her. The helpless thunder of his voice. The clang of a cup. The white-hot fire of confession. It's all like a song remembered from years back, the melody discordant and vague from rust. She wonders...if she could do that with Jackson. If she could try being a mother, whether giving birth or adopting. It's something she's wanted before. It's hard not to, with Harriet and Meredith's adorable gremlins. With Cadence's round, pink face in her little lavender knit cap.

A few raindrops hit her knees, the sky ahead rumbling a modest threat. No. No, she...couldn't. Jackson was one of the calmest, most collected people she knew, in a field that demanded an iron composure long before the first medical exam was handed in during undergraduate. This kind of grief is something she _knows_ of, but only in the most technical sense. Terms in an index or summaries in a file. Seeing it splayed out before her has skewed her vision. A pair of eyes adjusting to a new pair of glasses, where the crystal clear details make her realize just how blurry her perception had been.

She tried to save her mom, and failed. She tried to save her cousin, and _barely_ succeeded. She couldn't fail to save their _child_, too.

It's hard not to feel a grudging respect for April. The existential anguish she had to go through after Samuel's death. The respect is still buried beneath a mound of frustration, at how the woman left her husband to sleep with his own demons instead. Maggie shakes her head, rubs her forehead and tugs idly at a stray curl. No. That's not helpful, either. Comparing herself to his ex-wife, or _anyone_, really, isn't a habit she should make. All she knows...is that she wants to offer him better. The porch door slides open, so soft she doesn't hear it so much as _feel_ the rush of warm air.

"...Hey."

He doesn't speak for another minute or so, but the lack of words doesn't weigh as hard as it did. He's overdue on the right kind of silence, she thinks. Jackson rubs at the stubble starting to dot his jaw (still not scratching), seaglass gaze drifting with wherever the breeze is off to.

"Put the, uh...stuff on the counter away. Should be just as good tomorrow night. I was thinking of calling a pizza." He looks down at her, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Want some?"

Maggie opens her mouth, just as her stomach lets out the _worst_ sort of whine. His smile becomes more genuine, then, and he tries to disguise his laugh as a cough.

"...Double pepperoni." She pats her belly. "That's what it said."

"Double pepperoni it is." He huffs again and pushes his hands into his pockets. "So much for the period clause."

He rings up the nearest pizza delivery place and gets an extra large, ("_Never hurts to have something to reheat_."), then tacks on a salad with extra croutons.They don't quite look at each other all the while. Jackson even seems a little relieved when the doorbell rings. He pours them both a little wine. He's been dipping into his wine stores a lot, but...maybe that can be tackled later. Heart health didn't magically reverse itself with a single bowl of oatmeal. Mental health won't be undone with Domino's and a cup of pinot noir.

"...Never aired it all out like that before." He takes a bite. "Kind of feel..."

"...fuzzy?" Maggie offers. He huffs around another bite.

"Mm. Yeah."

He offers her a refill. She takes it. He's hunched over his knees, chilly and unwilling to admit it, not sitting _too_ close. It's kind of funny, the way they fidget around each other, trying to sidle back into what was comfortable and easy. Eventually Jackson gives up, brushing his hand against hers. She takes it gratefully, slotting their fingers together, and the world rights itself again. The unsaid still nags at her a little, like a child's hand tugging her sleeve.

"Are you going to talk about this later?" Her tongue almost trips over the word. It's a new instinct she refuses to let grow. "With your...therapist?"

"Yeah." To his credit, Jackson hardly hesitates. "He's been telling me to, uh, record everything...everything as it comes. Same thing Barnes told me. Day. Time. Trigger. Doesn't have to be long, just accurate and consistent."

Maggie blinks. So _that's_ why he's been tugging out his phone so often lately.

"Oh, like journaling?"

"Sort of. Here..."

Jackson pulls out his phone, then fumbles it and nearly drops it. Something about that, back to mundane and imperfect, cuts through her. She's happy. She's _proud_. Maggie sets down her plate, not bothering to wipe her hands off, and hugs him as hard as she can. So tight she feels his breath whoosh out next to her ear, surprised and soft.

"I love you." She whispers. "I _love_ you."

He doesn't speak, but the way he presses his nose to hers says plenty.

The night is lost in a limbo of not-quite-rain and not-quite-spring, and they huddle close to stay warm. The wine warms their chest as surely as any fire, Jackson huffing hot breath against her collar when she grouses about the chill, anyway. They talk about music. They talk about nothing. The silence that fills the gap now is meditative, a homegrown therapy they tap into as easily as breathing. Jackson pauses in the middle of refilling her glass.

"...He would've liked ravioli." He says, soft as flour. Maggie lays her cheek on his shoulder.

"Yeah." She murmurs. "I think he would've."

*

_my soul I_

_am broken_

_by you_

_one mornin' I'll wake up_

_renewed_

**Author's Note:**

> I've never tagged any of my fics as a 'whump', I don't think. Usually just putting 'emotional hurt/comfort' gets it across, but...this one's **pretty** whumpy, I'll tell you what-
> 
> This fic was supposed to be done in time for Whumptober, but, eh. Better late than never! Both song inspirations did a lot to feed into the atmosphere of this piece, but an extra mention has to go to the song by Paris Jones: it's a haunting piece about a newborn son who died, with lyrics that go into great detail into the aftermath that ripples throughout the entire family. It's unsettling how _closely_ it mirrors Jackson's situation. If Grey's Anatomy were a musical (aside from that one episode), _that's_ the song he'd sing.
> 
> ...Also, Paris Jones is a fabulous musician. Check out his music if you like yourself!
> 
> If it wasn't already apparent, this fic is set in the same alternate canon timeline as my other Jaggie fics, but is intentionally out-of-order. These glimpses reference other events in this 'verse, too, like Jackson being committed to a ward and Maggie having a rechargeable heart patient. These are things I want to elaborate on with _other_ fics in this (soon-to-be) series. Hopefully I can actually do them with all the things I'm already working on. _Fuck me and my living vicariously through the media I consume_.


End file.
